


get real good at losing

by tamsinb



Series: take a chance on me (betsy trombone) [2]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Knives, Mild Memory Loss/Alteration, Seasons 7-9, Smoking, Too Much Ska, fistfights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamsinb/pseuds/tamsinb
Summary: “Pitching lessons, Jaylen? Now?”“Well I wasn’tplanningon it. But you know, if you threw even a single curveball. Or a change-up. Literally anything that wasn’t a fastball. Might have some success.”“Like I give a shit about that. Just wanna get it over with.”“And end your time in the spotlight? Pitching’s aperformance, Betsy. And the first rule of performing isnevergive the audience what they want.”In which Betsy Trombone finds their people.
Relationships: Betsy Trombone & The Garages, Jaylen Hotdogfingers & Betsy Trombone, Mike Townsend & Betsy Trombone
Series: take a chance on me (betsy trombone) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092785
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	get real good at losing

**Author's Note:**

> One section of this work has unusually formatted dialogue that may be difficult for some to read. If this is the case for you, you can find a copy of the scene with that formatting removed [here](https://pastebin.com/v5bePEQ6).

* * *

_ “ _ _ came in this world a loaded handgun, _

_ i’ll leave it empty, or not at all…” _

_ "let’s take a ride like we used to”, pat the bunny _

* * *

When Betsy returned to the ground from the daydream haze they’d spent the last season floating through, they found a much different team than the one they’d left. Two incinerations. And their star player trapped in some dumb-looking peanut. Betsy felt the sadistic satisfaction of the second churn in their gut but when they tried to grab it and form it into a conscious emotion it slipped through their fingers like bile.

The Pies had declared themselves ‘jokerfied’ by these developments, erecting barriers of scumbag behavior miles high and thick around themselves. Even from the bullpens, and somehow especially from the kitchen, you could always hear the scraping sounds of skateboard tricks, and the strange mechanical whir of vape pens. If Betsy was given to introspection, they might have seen some reflection of themself in this, might have commented wryly that the Pies were copying their schtick  _ and doing it way lamer, _ or perhaps they would’ve been surprised at the wistfulness they could muster with the thought of  _ if y’all had only been like this from the start… _

But they afforded themself no such introspection. Mike was gone. Jaylen had come back. And she’d come back  _ wrong. _

The league was buzzing for whatever short time remained before the seventh season began. A grand experiment. A victory against the scourge of the rogue umpires that had plagued them since that damn book opened. And, though no one would dare say it within earshot of Betsy, getting rid of Mike was a huge boon to the Garages’ rotation.

Jaylen wasn’t shown on television during the preseason. The official reason was that she was undergoing ‘rehabilitation’, which, sure, thought Betsy, it was probably something like that. They thought back to the scene no one knew they’d witnessed, whatever false thing had stood in the spot where people were desperate to perceive Jaylen. They couldn’t hide her forever.

In game five her time in the rotation came and she was unveiled. She looked better, for whatever pittance that was worth, then she had when she’d first emerged. Betsy could tell, if they looked closely, the spots where prosthetics and grafts covered the places that necromancy couldn’t restore, but they figured no one else would be able to. But some things everyone could see. The vacant stare. The way she gazed at the ball in her hand like it was some arcane device she couldn’t discern the function of. The way she stood on the mound stock-still, looking more like a grave marker than a person.

*******

In the top of the second, Dickerson Morse is hit by an errant pitch. The game stops and holds its breath. Betsy stops too. They’re pitching a game at the same time, their schedule still synchronized with the rotation slot of Mike Townsend if not the man himself. They’ll see the recording of the event later that night, but it won’t seem right to them, not complete. Across the country from Seattle, on the mound in Mexico City, in the top of the second inning Betsy pauses with the ball clutched in their glove. They feel the sensation of a sword behind, and a sword being leveled at them. They feel a gaze, indiscriminate and all-encompassing. They think they hear trumpets, sounding at a great distance. They throw a strike fast and directly down the middle.

Six series later, Betsy faces off against Jaylen. They wait for the whole game for Jaylen to try something with her pitch, give them an excuse to charge out of the bullpen, rush the mound like a few others had already attempted. But they never get the chance and the game concludes without incident. And the part of Betsy that wants to see it for themself will never be sated.

*******

Betsy Trombone stood leaning against the wall of the Pies’ stadium, looking across a crowded parking lot. It had been seven days since they faced Jaylen. With one hand they took slow and measured drags of a cigarette, and with the other they compulsively refreshed the game feed of an arbitrary Tigers at Talkers game. They exhaled and scrolled down again, reloading the page long before it’s reasonable to expect another update.

The game’s only notable for one thing. Three players marked ‘Unstable’. Whatever that meant. Made that way by three pitches like laser-guided missiles thrown two days prior. Betsy knew, somehow, knew bone deep that it’s not  _ nothing, _ expected it so fully that when they refreshed the page next what they saw felt more like confirmation than a revelation.

A DEBT WAS COLLECTED.

They parsed the word debt and remembered Jaylen’s words and before they had time to read the name of the deceased they were running, sprinting around the stadium towards the Garages’ side, as fast as they could manage,  _ and hey, I’ve got more running stars than pitching, _ they thought inanely to themself, as they skidded around a corner just in time to see whatever members of the Garages could be spared from the game already doing something between shepherding and forcing Jaylen away from the stadium.

She was convulsing and thrashing and somewhere in there whether by accident or providence her eyes turned to where Betsy was peeking out from around a corner. Her gaze was present in a way it hadn’t been before, grounded inside her body. Betsy watched as hair reattached to skin and skin reattached to skull, growing back incrementally and forcing prosthetic away, falling to the ground with a clatter that revealed what stuff was underneath, pulsating arrhythmically.

Jaylen thrashed and her mouth twisted into a smile, as natural and effortless as hurling death.

And it was somewhere in that gaze that Betsy realized they would never be able to hate Jaylen. Not as much as she deserved. They didn’t know why.

They knew they should, as Jaylen was driven away and two more died, debts paid to a source it seemed only Jaylen could contact. They knew they should hate her. They couldn’t. Maybe it was because they’d been there when it happened. Maybe it was because of the way the Garages treated Jaylen like she was their unfortunate collective responsibility. Maybe it was because Jaylen had looked so fragile, so desperate. Maybe it was because Betsy somehow knew Jaylen would never ask for this. Another two died the next day and another fragment of debt was erased.

Betsy tried to summon up some measure of resentment. If only in Mike’s honor. If only out of obligation. But even as they did they saw his face when he talked about Jaylen and knew if he was still around he wouldn’t be able to hate her either.

Betsy flicked the replay off their phone and stared at the blank screen. It was late in their room and the single lightbulb that hadn’t burned out yet didn’t cast enough light to keep the room from being dim. They felt the urge to throw their phone against the wall rise and then fall and they weathered it and slid their phone harmlessly onto the nightstand. They stared at the ceiling until the dim light burned an afterimage into their retina. Just to know what it might feel like.

Jaylen pitched again three days later. Not a single batter hit. Almost like she was taunting the entire league, like she knew they were all watching with bated breath. Betsy wondered if the Garages had tried to keep her from taking the mound. But, well. The pitcher must throw the ball.

* * *

The season slid by. Jessica Telephone was pecked out of her shell and immediately put the rest of the team to shame with the force of her antics, forcing them all at length to watch her attempt to land skate tricks. Betsy could only watch in bemusement. The team reached party time a few days before the end and Betsy wanted no part of it, even when the others started to get stars from it. They hadn’t needed stars to be a good pitcher before and didn’t see why that would change now.

Sliding into season eight. And Jaylen didn’t kill anymore. Probably. Betsy never let themself stop checking the summaries each time, waiting for the procession of names to increase. But it never did. Just swapped teams now. Probably better that way. Jaylen’s body was whole, now, all fused contiguous skin and clothes fastened properly, fingernails all attached, reconstituted in form even if it was still clear to anyone watching her that her mind had yet to fully follow. Pitch after utterly mechanical pitch.

When Betsy’s hair started to split at the tips they would drag their knife around the ends for a trim, and if anything got too tangled they’d cut the lock out entirely. The Pies faced the Garages in round one of the playoffs and Betsy pitched a comfortable win against Jaylen en route to a sweep. They lost the next round and Jess went back in the shell and all Betsy could do was smirk.

* * *

Betsy Trombone was hardly ever in the bullpen. And they were  _ never _ in the bullpen in a series they weren’t pitching. And yet, coming off a narrow loss in their third game against the Fridays, there they were. Pitching to no one. Back in Seattle. Jaylen was pitching and they weren’t facing her. The Garages’ newly expanded rotation was to blame for that, breaking at last the synchronicity that had kept Betsy pitching against first Mike and then the spot formerly occupied by Mike any time they were set to face Seattle. But now, instead of being on the mound, Betsy was in the bullpen. Pitching out of spite, or memory.

It was a new season and no one yet knew what Jaylen’s pitches could do to you. Might as well get a front row seat, they thought, and in the second inning it’d paid off. A pitch slipped just wide and bounced off Kennedy Cena and a vibration had gone through the air, the hair on Betsy’s arms standing on end and the tips of their hair frizzing out and up.

Harmless now. Kennedy was repeating. Arguably even helpful. Betsy couldn’t help taking a breath between pitches to scoff.  _ Oh how the fuckin mighty have fallen… _

“Rude,” came a smug-sounding voice from the entrance to the bullpen. “Not like I asked them to make it so… minor.”

Betsy flicked their gaze away from the pitching target and over their shoulder to see Jaylen, relaxing against the bullpen wall. Looking alive, fully, and present. Something bright behind her eyes. Not that they’d been there, but if this was anything like what Jaylen had been like back in the first season, then Betsy could almost understand the clamor to bring her back. Even standing arms crossed against a padded wall, pretending with amusement to check her nails, she had a presence that dampened everything else in your field of view. Betsy had thought the effect had just been a byproduct of her extreme state when they’d met, but it turned out to be something Jaylen carried with her, deeper than death. Betsy felt themself wobble slightly on the mound, then closed their eyes and shrugged. Had to look unphased.

“Fuck do you want, don’t you have a game to pitch?”

“Would you feel like pitching after you’d been declawed?”

“You’re just being ungrateful. You know how many people would do anything to have murder privleges?” smirked Betsy. “Be glad you ever had them at all.”

Jaylen laughed and Betsy felt the familiar glow of weakness that came whenever they placated someone they knew could hurt them.

It didn’t look like Jaylen had anything else to say so Betsy made a show of rolling their eyes and going back to pitching. The impact of ball against tarp marked a steady beat and Jaylen walked to it, Betsy having to glance more and more over their shoulder as she made her way closer to the mound.

“Okay, really? You don’t have a single other pitch?”

Betsy slammed the ball they’d been about to throw back into their mitt. “Pitching lessons, Jaylen? Now?”

“Well I wasn’t  _ planning _ on it. But you know, if you threw even a single curveball. Or a change-up. Literally anything that wasn’t a fastball. Might have some success.”

“Like I give a shit about that. Just wanna get it over with.”

“And end your time in the spotlight? Pitching’s a  _ performance _ , Betsy. And the first rule of performing is  _ never _ give the audience what they want.”

“Look, just get lost, kay?” Betsy spun to face her. “Don’t want you- I dunno. Trying anything.”

Jaylen laughed. “I don’t bite, Betsy.”

“Not your fuckin bite I’m worried about.”

“Well. Maybe it should be.” She grinned.

“What the literal fuck is that supposed to mean,” deadpanned Betsy.

“I’m fucking with you. Shouldn’t take everything I say so seriously.” Jaylen hopped onto the artificial grass behind Betsy and sat down, resting back on her palms and crossing one leg over the other.

“We’ll see how serious it is when I fucking shank your ass…” muttered Betsy. Jaylen only chuckled.

"You're so different from the other one, you know? She was so… chipper."

Betsy turned away and hurled a pitch full-force dead-center. "Well. Sorry I can't be her."

"No, by all means don't be. If I had to deal with her right now I'd probably. Scream."

Somehow Betsy got the impression Jaylen had chosen against several alternate words to end that sentence with.

“You knew her?”

“Course. Back in the day I knew everyone. And now I don’t know shit.”

“Lot happens in five seasons.”

“I learn that more and more each day.”

“Well, you’re a fuckin sweet, caring individual. I’m sure you’ll have a bunch of friends in no time.”

A pitch hitting its target.

“Oh, yeah, I’m great at parties. You know how many of the people I killed had enemies? More than you’d think. We get along great.”

“How to win friends and influence people, Jaylen Hotdogbitch edition.”

“Oh, wow. Been a while since anyone’s put a bitch in my name.”

A pitch hitting its target.

“Yeah? Nostalgic?”

“Absolutely. Allison did that bit all the time. Tried to get Mike in on it, he never would.”

A pitch in the dirt. Betsy glanced back and noticed Jaylen’s fingers playing around her neck, searching for something.

They sighed. “Happy I could take you back to the good ol days, then.” But they couldn’t get as much snark behind it as they wanted. They spun the ball around in their hand and felt the divots and scrapes all the practice balls had.

Jaylen sighed and leaned back further. “So, Betsy. Inquiring minds want to know. What in the world were you doing in the Garage that day?”

“What’s it to you?” A reflex response.

“Put yourself in my shoes. Step out of a portal from hell back into the land of living and the first thing I see? Some fucking runt not even on the right team. None of the Garages even know you were there. Excuse me for being a little  _ confused.” _

“Seemed like you were confused about more than just that. You were a  _ bit _ out of it.”

“I was having a little trouble remembering what words were. Understandable given the circumstances, I think.”

“It was fuckin freaky. And gross.”

“And yet, I got better. Miraculous. Of course, it took a lot of hard work…”

“Like you didn’t enjoy it.”

Jaylen smiled, teeth bared. “You caught me. Guilty as charged. Of course, it felt better when they actually  _ died. _ Now it just feels hollow. Reminder. Echo. Something.” Fingers back on her neck.

“Ew. Keep the murder freak shit to yourself, nobody here’s fuckin interested.”

“Oh yeah?” perked up Jaylen. Her demeanor shifted and she sat up straight, hand pressing harder now, manic. “Hey, you wanna know if I did it on purpose? Everyone’s always asking that. I could tell you, if you wanted. Our little secret…”

Betsy flinched backwards, gripping the ball tight through their glove. “Don’t give a shit,” they said, all bravado. “Save it for someone who cares. You’d probably just fuckin lie anyway.”

“Ugh,” scoffed Jaylen, “you’re no fun. Fine, your one time offer’s expired. And here I was trying to thank you for looking after Mike for me…”

“So you know about that.”

“Not like you two kept it a secret. I was  _ hoping _ I could get you to say it first.”

“Not gonna fuckin play along with you. Anyway, so what? Me and Mike hung out, who gives a shit? Not fuckin interesting.”

Jaylen shrugged. “I suppose not. Just confirming. Let me pay you back anyway, though, okay?”

“Don’t trust any payment coming from your cursed ass.”

“Hm. You’re smarter than you look.”

“Nah, I’m pretty dumb.”

Jaylen smiled. “That doesn’t contradict what I said. Well. It’s a repayment mostly for my sake, really. Probably about time I get out of this town.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?

“Figure it’s time I find some fresh fields to burn down. I’ll get there eventually, anyway.” Jaylen pushed herself off the ground, dusting off her uniform unnecessarily.

Betsy checked the scoreboard. “Bout time for you to get back to it.”

“A performer’s work is never done,” she agreed. A pause. Betsy went back to pitching. The same resounding thwack. “Why’d he do it, Betsy?”

The new edge of tenderness in her voice stopped their hand above the next ball for just a moment. Then, a throw, and the sound of impact.

“Somethin you said. About playoffs. Somethin about what he could do. Not sure whether it was for your sake or his.”

“It was  _ that?” _ said Jaylen, mostly to herself. “C’mon, Mike, that was just some shit I said for motivation… no reason to. Ugh. Guess you never got any smarter while I was gone. You fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,” agreed Betsy knowing Jaylen was too preoccupied to hear. “Fucking idiot.”

Jaylen’s head was bending down now, half-whispering to herself, laments spoken out of character and falling limply to the ground, muted  _ should’ve left me behind _ and  _ should’ve been here to talk you out of it _ and  _ why don’t you listen, you never listen _ and it was in a mood of something between mercy and vengeance that Betsy flicked out their switchblade, turning to lunge backwards at Jaylen.

Silence for a moment, then the sound of an announcer. Bodies taking the field, other bodies leaving. Betsy risked looking up and met Jaylen’s downward gaze. She was blinking, spell broken. Her eyes held no malice. No surprise. Amusement, maybe. Betsy pulled their knife back. Their stab had gone wide to Jaylen’s left, missing her. By just a hair.

“Almost thought you might’ve had it in you,” mused Jaylen, a smile slowly creeping to her face as she stood up straight. “But I guess you wouldn’t want to ruin the fruits of Mike’s effort, now would you?”

Betsy limply put away the knife. “Just didn’t wanna go down to your fuckin level.”

“Right. Right.” Jaylen laughed, sweetly and thinly and distracted. “Looks like the game’s starting.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever, indeed.”

Jaylen started towards the exit, laying a hand on Betsy’s shoulder as she passed. And as she did Betsy had the distinct impression that there was something now sticking out of their back, the tip of which they might see if they looked down.

“See you soon, Bets,” muttered halfway under Jaylen’s breath. Betsy’s head was spinning and the ringing in their ears was getting louder and they were worried if they turned to watch Jaylen go they would lose what they’d eaten on the way to the stadium, and they were worried about what they might see if they looked down, so they stayed gazing straight ahead, swaying slightly and counting the seconds in their head until the vertigo passed.

Eventually it did.  _ Fuckin weirdo, _ they thought to themself. No time for that now, though. They straightened their hat and flexed their glove and made their way across the field. Two batters left to take care of. And only two pitches needed, the first a fastball to Woodman for a ground out. For the second, just for a laugh they threw a slider, not a very skilled one, but the contrast was enough to surprise Beasley for a second groundout.

Betsy cocked a grin and rolled their shoulders. Headed back into the dugout. Went to sit in their usual spot on the bench, only used when they bothered to show up to games. Except. There was a catboy sitting in it. And Malik wasn’t on their team. They squinted. Took the hat off their head to read the ‘SG’ on the front. Looked down at their navy uniform. Requisite flannel accent tied around their waist. Spun in place, noticing only now the dugout they’d walked into was on the wrong side of the field.

They looked around at the row of near-strangers who were also coming to the realization. A standoff for a few moments. Then the sound of walkup music.

“Well, that’s me up,” said Theodore Duende, standing up. “Uh, hey! Welcome to the team!” He clapped them on the shoulder as he walked out of the dugout.

*******

If this is what the vibes were like on the Garages when Jaylen had  _ left,  _ Betsy couldn’t begin to imagine what it’d been like when she was still here. Most of the team was still gossiping, glancing at them over low statements about what they’d do now, and if this would get people off their back, and other stuff Betsy couldn’t intuit. A few of the friendlier faces welcomed them a bit and tried to ask about the Feedback, and they were too tired to get them off their back right away. They got asked about Jaylen and it wasn’t like they knew anything anyway so the answers were pretty easy.

The game ended and they all crammed into the van that passed for the Garages’ transport, Betsy for once grateful for their tiny frame, and that they weren’t claustrophobic or anything. They put on their headphones and blasted music loud enough that anyone within ten feet would get the message.

The official scorecard of the game showed Betsy Trombone having pitched all nine innings. Which meant they had a Beaning to their name, a 1 marked down in the Hit By Pitch column. Betsy laughed.  _ That’s fuckin sick as hell. _

They’d held onto the win, extending the lead Jaylen had started. Ted claimed as he drove that they were on their way to a ‘Victory Bender’, and Betsy felt at least a bit grateful that he didn’t call it a welcoming party. Less pressure on them to do anything besides what they wanted to do: get drunk enough to have an excuse to fucking break something.

*******

They woke up. Tried to open their eyes and the world shimmered and split and a thin burning raised from their stomach. So Betsy kept their eyes closed.

“Fuckin shit…”

“Oh, you’re up?”

A voice from somewhere in front of them. And Betsy noticed she was moving, forward mostly, but slightly up and down as well. Their arms were wrapped around something that felt like jersey material.

“You all good?” asked a voice that they placed as Teddy Duende’s. “Don’t worry, we’re almost back.”

A cool night breeze went over the back of their neck and they realized they were being carried, slung over Ted’s back piggyback style as they made their way through some Seattle street or other.

Betsy wished it wasn’t taking everything in them just to stay upright and keep the queasiness from becoming overwhelming. Otherwise, they would probably… well, freak out, or something. They couldn’t put their finger on the specifics right now so they let their head relax and tried their best to pretend they were on a boat and the rocking was just ocean waves.

“I’m fine. I guess,” they mumbled after a while. “What happened?”

“Well, first you drank Lori under a table.”

“Fuck yeah. Serves her right.”

“Then you tried to fight the table.”

“It had it coming.”

“Then you figured it’d be a good idea to climb onto  _ another _ table so you could jump onto the first one.”

“Well? Did it work? Did I win?”

“Hard to say. You screamed ‘Betsy MF Trombone, Bitch’, and passed out before you could jump.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess I do remember that.” Betsy breathed in through their nose and laughed weakly. “God I’m cool. I’m so fucking sick.”

Ted shifted the way their weight sat across his back. “You sure had fun.”

“No I didn’t. Fuck off.”

“Right. My bad.”

“Look if I’m too fuckin heavy for you or something I can get off, try to walk.”

“Betsy even when you’re this full of beer you probably don’t break triple digits in terms of pounds,” chuckled Ted, “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Fuck off. Die.” Betsy rolled their eyes behind their eyelids and immediately regretted it. They used the slow rhythm of Ted’s steps to ground themself. “Wait a sec didn’t we come in a van? Why the fuck are we walking home.”

“Oh, right, I think Oll-E and Paula took it on a joyride? Someone usually does.”

“So we’re walking back.”

“Yep.”

“What kind of fuckin team do you run here, Ted?”

“Call me Teddy. And I don’t run the team.”

“Yeah no I’m calling you Ted. And fuck do you mean you don’t run the team, aren’t you like captain or whatever?”

“God no, we don’t have a captain or anything like that. We just sort of come to decisions as a group.”

“Uh huh. So like, if the league sends you some paperwork, who fills that out.”

“Oh, I do. Nobody else really knows how to do paperwork so-”

“And if two people are arguing and shit and someone’s gotta break it up, who does that.”

“Well, depends on who’s around, but I guess probably me.”

“Right.”

“Are you trying to imply something, Betsy?”

“Me? Nah.” Betsy yawned. “Just gettin the facts straight. Not like you know me or anything, but I’m pretty fuckin stupid. Don’t even know what the word ‘imply’ means.”

“Whatever you say.” Ted stopped to wait for a crossing light. “I mean, it’s not like I don’t know you at all.”

“Uh, it’s basically exactly like that, cause you don’t.”

“Nah, I saw you around. Like, uh, at that club, that one time.”

“You remember that dumb shit?”

“You can make a pretty strong impression when you want to, Betsy.”

“Knife’s good for that.”

“It sure is. Plus, I mean, you hung out with Mike all the time. Was nice to see the guy get some friends not on his own team.”

“Don’t even say his fucking name.” Betsy wished they were able to put any strength behind the words but they came out more like a sigh than a polemic. “Don’t talk about him don’t fucking mention him after what you did.”

Ted sighed like he knew this was coming as he started across the street. “Look, Betsy, I know how all that must’ve looked from the outside. Trust me, enough people have told me. But you know enough to know that we never would’ve tried it if we’d thought anything like all of this would come from it.”

“Can’t you listen? I just told you I don’t know shit about shit. I just call em like I see em and from what I saw? Just a bunch of you fucks picking on his ass until he got the crazy fuckin idea in his head to run off and-”

“You weren’t there, Betsy.” Ted cut them off. “I’m sorry to have to put it bluntly but you weren’t there and you don’t know what happened.”

Oh, yeah. Betsy had almost forgotten no one knew about that. Probably better to keep it that way.

“Yeah. I don’t know shit. As usual.”

“Look, I know you were close, but that doesn’t mean you-”

“Don’t matter that we were close, don’t fuckin matter. It’s the fuckin principle.”

“Oh yeah? So you’re saying if it were someone else you’d feel the same way? If it had been Lang, Lang Richardson, you’d still be just as mad?”

“Fuck off. Fuck you.”

“Just don’t try to bullshit me, Betsy. I can deal with a lot of stuff but I don’t have much patience for that.”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you let me down and you can find out how well you fuckin deal with me?” Betsy made no attempt to move.

“Look. I’m just gonna skip this argument for now, okay? You’re drunk and you’re angry and the two don’t play together great with you. If you’re still mad about it later you can come yell at me then. Sound good? Let’s just get home.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Not even keeping their eyes closed was blocking out the vertigo anymore. Betsy didn’t know how accurate Ted’s description was, but if what he said about decision-making was true, well. Betsy had always thought they only needed to carry their resentment for Ted, but if it was all of them, if it was the whole team, if they were rotten clear down to the center- And here Betsy was, wearing their uniform. Wearing their tacky flannel (although its warmth  _ was _ welcome in the night). They felt once again like just another aspect of the rot that had eaten Mike Townsend.

“Fucking nightmare zone…” they mumbled, thoughts getting carried away into words. “That fucking bitch putting me on this fucking team… bet she thinks she’s real fucking funny, huh, putting me out here, kicking me off my team…”

“If you’re homesick for the Pies, we’ve got basically half their old roster here already.”

“That supposed to be a joke? Fuck off, like I give a shit about the fucking Pies.”

“You spent, what, four seasons there?”

“So? Probably spent that long in the fuckin bathroom in my life don’t mean I’m nostalgic for it.”

“Well. I guess that kinda makes this whole thing easier.” A pause. “Not even a single positive emotion?”

“Do I look like a bitch capable of having positive emotions?”

“I can’t really see you, since you’re on my back.”

“Take my fucking word for it.”

“Betsy. I’m not gonna tell you what to do. But, maybe now that you’re on a new team, you could give enjoying it a try? Just for a change. Might surprise you, you might not even be allergic to it.”

“Damn it’s crazy how you said you’re not gonna tell me what to do before doing exactly th-”

“And! Would you look at that, we’re here!” Ted cut them off once again, this time by shrugging them quickly off his shoulders. Betsy slid onto their feet, pins and needles shooting all the way up to their thighs. They wobbled, but stayed steady enough to remain upright.

“Never fucking carry me again.”

“That’s more up to you than me.” Ted had walked ahead, almost through the doors by the time Betsy righted themself. But he stopped before heading in. He turned over his shoulder. “Feel free to come find me whenever. Even if it’s not to yell at me, just to say what’s on your mind. Don’t want you running off. Gotta keep the band together.”

“Uh, news flash, Ted, judging by the state of your team you’ve done a pretty piss-poor job of that.”

“Sure have. But we’re gonna put ourselves back together, mark my words. And you’re gonna be part of it.”

“Good fucking luck with that.”

“Eh, I’ve got a bit of luck saved up. I’ll take my chances.”

* * *

Betsy lay atop the covers in their bed, sketchbook propped against one knee. If feedback was something animate maybe this was meant as a courtesy, or maybe it was just another arbitrary outcome, but their new/old room had been transposed directly into the Big Garage. Of course, it still felt more like the other Betsy’s room than theirs. They sort of wanted to be rid of it. Maybe they’d repaint it. That would probably require cleaning, though. They added a few more cross-hatches to their version of the new view from out their window and hoped Jaylen was hating their old apartment’s 3 story walkup as much as they had.

The Big Garage’s nested structure and bevy of rooms meant there were plenty of spaces for people to shack up if they wanted to, and about half the team did. The rest lived in nearby houses or apartments, none far enough away to keep the common space with the comfiest couch and the biggest TV from being the default hangout spot. It reminded Betsy of the dorm they’d lived in for the one semester of college they’d managed to stumble through before realizing what a mistake they’d made. At which point they’d of course made the far stupider decision to sign up for the Blaseball draft. Well. At least it was impossible to make a decision stupider than that one. All uphill from there.

They were startled out of their reverie by a knock at the door. A muffled “Yo Betsy, you in there?”

“Fuck off,” on reflex. Then: “Whaddya want.”

“Can I open?”

“Whatever.”

Oliver Mueller poked his head around the door. He went to take a step in, then noticed the mess strewn across the floor. He opted to shove a binder and a few empty soda cans out of the way to make a space so he could lean on the wall just inside the door. His hair frizzed out in a low ponytail under his hat and the combination of his half-lidded eyes and easy grin made him look perpetually a bit… out of it. Betsy flipped their notepad shut and slipped the pencil into the rings.

“You sketch?” he asked.

“You care?”

He shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

“Whatever.”

“God this is a good conversation. We’re nailing this.”

Betsy smirked despite themself. “Fuck off, Olly.”

“Sure, yeah, okay, let me just-”

“Ugh. Look, what do you have to tell me.”

Olly stopped halfway through slipping out the door. “Did Teddy give you the whole, uh. What should I call it, homework?”

“What, listening to all your shitty albums?”

“Wow, harsh,” laughed Olly. “Yeah, that. You through?”

“Yeah, at long fucking last.”

“What’d you think?”

“Don’t know how y’all are the default Blaseball band with just one good album.”

“Okay. I’ll bite. What’s the one good album.”

Betsy rolled their eyes. “The ska one a course.”

“You’re kidding. Wait, is this like, an alternate thing? Ska real popular over there?”

“No,” admitted Betsy. “I got like super picked on for it there too.”

“Well. Secret’s safe with me. And uh,” Olly leaned in, exaggeratedly whispering in a room where no one else could here them, “don’t go spreading it around but I’m tempted to agree with you. It’s a bit of a sore subject around here, though.”

“Whatever.”

“So, uh. A fellow ska-noisseur.”

“Ew.”

“Should I take this to mean you play? Brass, maybe? Perhaps the tromb-”

The schwing of a switchblade. “One more syllable and you’re fucking dead, Ol.”

“Okay! Got it! Point taken. You play anything else, then?”

“Instruments? Not a one.”

“Well, do you wanna?”

“Do I gotta?”

“Not explicitly. I mean, you’re on the Garages Blaseball team which means you’re on the band, so like, you can fill any niche you want. Which I guess includes doing nothing. It’s just-”

“Let me guess. You or some other asshole is gonna come in here and annoy me until I agree.”

Olly smiled. “Oh good, you’ve figured out how we do things around here! We’ll make a Garage out of you yet.”

“Not fucking likely.”

“Anyway, any preferences? We’re, uh,  _ rebuilding _ right now let’s say, so you can call dibs on just about-”

Betsy put as much thought into it as they did most decisions. Namely, none.

“Drums.”

“Really?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

“It’s just. Uh. You’re a little small for them, don’t you think? You might have some trouble reaching-”

“God you sure have a fucking deathwish today, huh.”

“Not me! Drums it is, then. I guess that works, we’ve just been switching off since Shaq, so it might be nice to have someone dedicated on it. You ever played before?”

“Not once.”

“Great! Awesome! I love it!”

“I can tell you’re being sarcastic, Ol, I’m not  _ that _ stupid.”

“Well, worth a try? Nah, I’m just cranky cause I got put in charge of this for some reason. For real though, I can teach you if you want? I’ve done a bit of it in my time, you could do worse than me.”

“If it gets you off my case.”

“It absolutely will! Until practice, that is.”

“Guess I can’t ask for anything better than that.”

“Better than nothing.”

“Most things are.”

“Wiseass.”

*******

Jaylen looked terrible in a Pies uniform. Not that Betsy had looked good in it either, of course, only a certain girl whose name may have rhymed with Smellophone had ever  _ really _ pulled it off, but knowing that did nothing to halt their Schadenfreude.

Jaylen was in Betsy’s old slot in the rotation which meant she pitched sooner. Realizing that led Betsy to the corresponding realization that they currently occupied Mike’s slot, a fact which they had absolutely no hope of processing in the moment. Maybe later.

Three pitches, in three consecutive innings, hit Summers Pony, Nolanestophia Patterson, and Paula Turnip. Formerly of the Pies, Pies, and Tigers, respectively, and all only recently of the Seattle Garages. All now repeating. Nobody who’d been a Garage in Jaylen’s day. It could’ve been revenge. It could’ve been mercy. All Betsy knew for sure was that not in a million years would anyone ever pry the answer out of Jaylen.

*******

“Betsy. Betsy stop.”

“Aw c’mon! I was just getting going.”

“You were going plenty.”

“Nuh uh, you should see me really start to shred.”

“Look, I like the enthusiasm. I do. And you’re definitely a lot better than before. It’s just-”

“Just what? Still too small for it?”

“Nah not at all, actually it’s pretty cool how you rearranged everything to make it work. It’s just. Betsy have you ever heard of  _ rhythm.” _

“Jeez, would it kill you to let a guy down easy?”

“I know how that sounds, but I don’t mean it like- okay, Betsy, pop quiz. What makes a good drummer?”

“I don’t fuckin know Ol, you’re gonna tell me eventually, why not just-”

“Humor me, kay?”

“Whatever. Uh, I dunno, playing sick beats? Like, real fast, lotta notes, real loud. Just fuckin slamming on everything.”

“Right. Yeah, maybe. If we’re talking about a soloist or something. But you’re in a band, Betsy. Well, hopefully, anyway. And drumming for a band means being the rhythm. The beat that holds everything together.”

“Ew. Gross. That’s not what I signed up for.”

“No takebacks.”

“Aw maaaan.”

“The drums are the baseline, they’re what everything else references. Everybody’s looking to you, and if they all do that then they’ll all hold together. Make sense?”

“Don’t really know why you’re tellin me this when you won’t let me practice with the band.”

“You’ve got some fundamentals to work on still. Not as many as I thought, though. You mostly just need to get your mentality down.”

“Hate to disappoint, bud, but my mental whatever is usually pretty fuckin lacking.”

“Don’t worry, Bets, I’m pretty sure dumber people than you have played drums.”

“Smarter ones too though.”

“Oh yeah. No doubt.”

“Hey, look. Uh. Real talk. You sure you want me doing this? Doubt I’ll be very good at like, holding people together, and shit.”

“Well, maybe. Part of me thinks you might surprise us, though.”

“That’s not necessarily a good thing.”

“It might be. Anyway, let’s hear those last 16 bars again. Remember: steady tempo.”

*******

Betsy turned over in their bed, checking the clock on their phone. 11:15 pm. The one night they’d gotten into bed at a not-ungodly hour, and they couldn’t get a single wink of sleep because of-

It sounded again, a wail like a garbage disposal’s garbage disposal. Like when you made a pastry filling too watery and the steam had to find whatever small crevice it could to escape. Like hell’s own rubber chicken.

Because of  _ that. _

Grumbling to themself, Betsy hopped out of bed and pulled a stray flannel around themself to hang over their drawstring shorts. The whole flannel motif was starting to grow on them, it was convenient and warm if not quite sympathetic with their usual style.

It wasn’t hard to figure out where the noise was coming from, it echoed continually through the halls of Big Garage like a beacon. All Betsy had to do was follow it back to the open door it was coming out from and swing it open to find the culprit.

That being Tot Clark, sitting on the floor, expression unreadable, behind bandages save for the one exposed eye. Next to him was Summers Pony, who they knew from their time together on the Pies, and who was also a horse. A horse which currently had a saxophone clutched between its- teeth? Were there a special word for horse teeth? Betsy shook their head. There were more important things to focus on. Namely, the third person on the floor.

“Oh hey Betsy,” said Jaylen, barely restraining her laughter. “Did you come to help? We’re teaching Summers how to play sax.”

A note horrendous, deep, and deeply  _ wrong _ flew from the saxophone.

“It’s going great,” deadpanned Tot, sending Jaylen into snickers.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

“Damn. Cranky,” said Jaylen.

“Of course I am I can’t fucking sleep with this. Whatever the fuck you’re doing.”

“Team bonding.”

“You’re not on this team.”

“Guess again.” And Jaylen tilted her head down, draping her high ponytail over one shoulder and revealing the Garages logo on their hat. Betsy crossed their arms.

“Should I be packing my bags?”

“Not you this time. Henry.”

“The fucking marshmallow?”

“Makes sense to send him to the Pies, don’t you think?” Jaylen smiled as if asking Betsy to join in.

“Is that all this is to you? Some sort of weird joke?”

“Why Betsy, I’m offended,” adopting a mock air of sincerity, “whatever would make you think poor old Jaylen has any say in this at all?”

“Ew. Cut the shit, Hotdogbitch.”

Jaylen laughed with lips pressed tight. “Don’t worry. I won’t be here long. Just having some fun while I am.”

“Tot, you cool with this? What are you doing hanging out with her, anyway.”

“What’s it matter to you?”

“Don’t matter to me what you do. Just, you know, with the murder and shit.”

“Betsy I’m like a thousand years old and I used to be a pharaoh. I’ve done a couple of murders in my time.”

“Ugh. Whatever.”

“I dunno, I figured you would feel the same. Unless your knife is just for show.” His voice was an even tone the whole time but Betsy couldn’t help but hallucinate a touch of playfulness creeping in at the end there.

“Course it ain’t. I’ve killed people. Probably like. I dunno. Jay, how many people have you murdered?”

“Twelve.” Then, as an afterthought: “And counting.”

“Yeah so I’ve probably got like three times that. Whatever that is.”

“Uh huh,” said Tot.

“Hey. Chucklefucks. Keep it down. I’m onto something here.”

“What the fuck exactly are you on,” said Betsy.

“Let me just- Yeah Summers, just like- You got it, you got it! And-”

A single note, the G over middle C, rang out sweet and pure like a clarion call.

“Holy shit,” said Betsy, “holy shit the fucking horse just played the saxophone. Holy shit that rules.”

“Fuck yeah it does. Another win for Jay HDF. Toss it onto the pile.”

“So, is that mission accomplished?” asked Tot.

Jaylen made a show of thinking. “Hey. You think we can get it to play Run Away With Me?”

“Only one way to fuckin find out,” said Betsy, plopping down on the floor to form a circle with the other three, adding their own knowledge to the group’s attempt to figure out - now that they knew how to get a horse to play it - how the fuck a saxophone was supposed to work.

*******

No one knew where she was staying. Hardly ever saw her around, and definitely not at practice or hangouts. And yet, when it was her turn to pitch, there was Jaylen on the mound. Pitched the inning, then wandered off to the bullpens. And after the game she’d vanish.

It was nonsense and it was annoying but Betsy thought it was almost worth it to see the anguish on Ted’s face now that Jaylen was back. They made sure to be at every game she pitched just to be a part of the delectably awful vibes in the team’s bullpen.

* * *

“C’mon, where the hell did he keep his fucking molds…”

Betsy was standing on the counter of the Garages’ kitchen, searching through the cabinets they couldn’t reach any other way. The search was not going well, the shelves a disorganized nightmare that Betsy would’ve  _ loved _ not to be their job to clean up. No one else was going to do it. But even though they knew it was silly Betsy couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe there was some secret organization at play here that they were afraid to tamper with, and so the grand project to fix the Garages’ kitchen had yet to be undertaken. As they stepped along the cluttered counter they kicked scattered trays and cookie cutters out of the way.

The door closed. They hadn’t heard it open. They whipped around.

“So this is where you hang out.” Jaylen surveilled the room with the same air of superiority she used to address everything.

“You’re still here?” they asked, as snide as they could be while standing on top of a counter and still not able to reach the top of the cabinets.

“Don’t you ever get sick of being so fucking rude all the time? It’s boring.”

“Doesn’t bother me. Question remains.”

“Jeez, don’t have an aneurysm over it. I’ll be gone soon. Wanted to talk to you before I went, though.”

Betsy narrowed their eyes. “About what?”

“You always this pushy? Well, guess that’s a stupid question. Give me a sec, okay? Been a while since I’ve been in here.”

“Whatever.” Betsy went back to looking while Jaylen ran her hands over counters and inspected machinery.

“God, it’s even worse than I remember.”

“Right? Gets shittier every season.”

“Someone should really do something about that.”

“Hey, don’t look at me. I’d probably just make it worse.”

“No doubt.”

“Fuck you.”

“You said it, not me. Whatcha makin?”

“Uh. Madeleines.” They looked over their shoulder and Jaylen was looking back blankly. “They’re like, little cakes? Teacakes, I guess. Technically. Anyway they’re shaped like shells and I  _ know _ Mike had a mold for them around here somewhere but I can’t fucking find it.”

“So. You and Mike hung out in here.”

She sure had a way of getting right to the information that interested her. “When we played each other. Here. I helped him, he helped me. Sort of thing.”

Jaylen nodded. “Me and Allison and him used to hang out here while he baked.”

“And what were the two of you doing.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah. Ew.”

Betsy sighed. Put their hand on the outside of their jacket to feel the outline of their knife. They dropped back down onto the floor, glaring at Jaylen down a long row of cupboards. Jaylen turned, attuned to the noise and motion.

“What do you want, Jay.”

“One wonders if the reason you were around here at such a strange time might have anything to do with your baking habit.”

“Whoever the fuck ‘one’ is needs to shut the fuck up and mind their own business.”

“I’m not trying to fight you, Betsy, I’m trying to ask for your help.”

“Fuck you.”

“Betsy. I don’t have much time left here.”

“What the fuck could I even help you with.”

“You were here. Before I was. When I got here I was already in the.  _ State. _ I was in. But not you. You saw. You can tell me what happened.”

"Lotta fuckin assumptions, Jay. Turns out I wasn't there, actually. Missed it."

"Betsy. I saw you."

"No you didn't. Could've been anybody."

"Could've been someone else three foot tall in a dumb looking jacket and a bad haircut?"

"There's at least one other version of me. No reason there couldn't be more. Could've been Tretsy."

"...Tretsy."

"Tretsy Bombone. My evil twin."

Jaylen looked at them a long moment and Betsy hoped she didn't notice that they were holding their breath.

"You fucking brat. Fine. Whatever. I don't know how the hell Mike put up with you."

"Maybe he didn't, maybe that was why he threw himself into the shadows. Maybe it didn't even have anything the fuck to do with you."

Jaylen laughed. "I'm sorry, and what the fuck do you know about Mike, exactly? We were best friends until the day I fucking died, and you knew him for what? A season? You weren't even in this universe while they were writing song after song about me and making Mike perform them. And guess what? He fucking loved every second of it, so don't even  _ fucking _ talk to me about him when all you were was something to pass his time with until he killed himself entirely 100% for my sake."

Betsy had their knife out, fast but inexpert. And Jaylen was ready for it. With a swift palm she hit the outside of Betsy’s hand away and up, sending the knife sailing across the room.

Jaylen was saying something. Betsy couldn’t hear it. Some animal part of them remembered what things were like before they’d started carrying a knife. And the only thought left in their head was  _ never the fuck again. _

They threw a hook as wild as the look in their eyes and two of their knuckles managed to catch Jaylen across her jaw right as she was forming a syllable. Her head flew back, again away and up. She pressed two fingers two her lip and they came away bloody.

Nothing to say at that point, for either of them. Just Jaylen moving at them, and Betsy undecidedly taking a step back before trying some other swing, but Jaylen’s arms were longer and faster and Betsy wasn’t really used to fighting back-

And they took the hit and Betsy’s head was seeing different things than it had been just a moment before and when they swung it back around to face Jaylen something around their cheekbone throbbed sharply and they were falling backwards, they’d been pushed, and they managed to get their arms up on the counter, holding themself up as Jaylen took a step forward and delivered another blow, their head going straight backwards and coming back wet, the back bloodied against some sharp tool behind them, and Betsy’s vision doubled and redoubled and Jaylen was trying something else now and.

Their hand was gripping something now and they didn’t think twice before half-swinging half-hurling it at Jaylen. The sheetpan hit her temple on its corner, not broadside but horizontal, and Jaylen flinched away for a split second and Betsy knew they lost in the range department so why not take things closer-

Betsy rushed into Jaylen, a full tackle around her midsection, and it was just fast or just sudden enough to knock her backwards and Betsy ended up on top, hailing first an elbow then an open palm then as much of a fist as they could form, and Jaylen’s arms couldn’t keep up, and Jaylen was choking something out as Betsy got another hit in, and she was coughing and bleeding and-

“I said fucking  _ stop, _ Betsy!”

They were thrown off to the side, slamming their hip hard against a cupboard, the sound of glassware breaking inside. Betsy hoped the ease with which they’d been tossed was some kind of last-ditch strength and not just an indication that Jaylen had been pulling her punches. They tried to shake their head clear before Jaylen was up again, but. She wasn’t. She was curled up, coughing, holding places Betsy was sure they hadn’t hit.

“Jay?” they managed. “You good?”

“No I’m not fucking  _ good,” _ she spat between coughs. “My body is fucking eating itself.”

Betsy crawled over to Jaylen. A rash was spreading across her face and her fingers pressed tightly against her neck. With each cough came a shudder. Her eyes were bloodshot. On instinct Betsy put a hand against her forehead. Burning up. They took their hand away and a few strands of hair fell out.

“Fuck. Uh. Okay. I’m gonna get like a wet towel? I think? Can you like, sit up or anything?”

Jaylen tried to shake her head. “Can’t move. Joints won’t bend.”

“Shit. Kay. I’ll be right back.”

They dashed away and came back with a cool, damp towel. This couldn’t be harder than on TV, they thought, laying it across Jaylen’s head.

“All right. That uh, that feel good?”

Jaylen wasn’t listening. It took Betsy a moment to realize she was muttering to herself.

“My name is Jaylen. Jaylen Hotdogfingers. I’m a pitcher for the Seattle Garages, active in the first, seventh, eighth, and ninth seasons. My season 8 ERA was 3.71 and I won 18 of my 19 starts. Best in the league. Before that, my season 7 ERA was 4.1… something, a- and I won. Not as many games, I know that much, but…”

“Jay…? What’s up?”

“Oh! Betsy, you’re here. How many games did I win season 7?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that?”

“Well, whatever. It doesn’t matter, r-right? I remembered most of it, so that proves it, right? It’s me, Jaylen, it’s- it’s me, it’s.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Jay, just uh. Calm down.”

“Oh! I know what you’re going to bring up, those stats are recorded, I could just look those up any time, okay what about this, what about- The last time the Garages all hung out. Before I died. Our worst-in-division party. Uh. Someone slipped and spilled beer on me, right as I was leaving. Mike. No wait. Avila. For sure. Your fault for getting me confused on Mike, otherwise I would’ve- Anyway, sh- she spilled on me, and I said. Something. I told her. I said something real. Real, like. Fuck it, okay, fuck it. I mean. I got most of it, right? I r-remembered most of it, and that was from before I died, and that was the real Jaylen, so that means I’m her, right? It’s me, it’s, I’m Jaylen. It’s me, right? I’m me? I’m Jaylen, right?”

*******

Eventually the rash went away and Jaylen was able to move her arms again. Whatever marks Betsy had left were already looking a little better than before. The cough went away. And last of all, Jaylen removed her fingers from the cluster of veins in her neck.

Jaylen stayed on the floor, now propped up against a door, Betsy leaning back on the counter and watching the smoke from their cigarette get sucked up into a kitchen fan. Gingerly felt the gauze they’d taped against the back of their head. Not like their hair could get any more fucked up.

“You feel any better?”

Jaylen shrugged. “Guess so.”

“Wanna smoke?”

“Probably shouldn’t. Lungs still hurt. Thanks though.”

“No problem. That uh. Happen often?”

“Not really. More than it used to, though.”

“Sucks.”

Jaylen struggled out a smile. “Yeah. Sucks.”

Betsy took a long drag. Their body hurt too bad not to ask. “What’s all this about. What is it you’re hoping I can tell you.”

"What’s wrong with me, mostly. Besides the obvious. When I got back I knew some stuff, got told vaguely what happened in the league, but. Nothing about me. Nothing important.” Jaylen sighed. “I feel like I’m still a ghost and this body is just something I haunt. I feel like a mattress someone tried to shove back in the original packaging. I feel like my body isn't my own. You know?"

"Course I do. I'm trans."

"Not what I meant, Betsy."

And Betsy wanted to say:  _ Of course you don't feel like it's yours you fucking idiot, it's not, you stole it, whatever the fuck those bastards did to Mike tore him apart by the fucking atom and built him back into something that kind of looked like your body used to, and now you’re stuck inside it somehow and you won’t leave. _

But they looked at Jaylen's throat and how it struggled to draw breath. And how she still shook, ever so slightly, each time.

There were many things Betsy Trombone hated about themself. First among them was the fact that they were a fucking coward.

"Sorry, Jay. I don't know. And I probably never will."

And they left.

*******

Jaylen Hotdogfingers feedbacked away from the Garages during the next game. She never came back.

* * *

Betsy Trombone would never, as long as they lived, become used to the sight of two identical copies of one batter on the field. It was one of the few things that made them wonder about the world they’d came from, whether things over there were as fucked up as they were here. They didn’t think anything that world offered could be as bad as the sight of  _ two _ Ted Duendes on the field.

It was the first time this season Betsy had faced off against Jaylen. She was on the Shoe Thieves now, had been for a week, and Betsy hoped she wasn’t planning to leave the game in a different uniform.  _ Although, _ Betsy thought,  _ I would probably be a pretty okay shoe thief. Fit into tight spaces, all that. Good for heists. _ Word around the league was that Esme had hauled off and decked Jaylen as soon as the two were in the locker room together. Betsy hoped it was a firmer hit than they’d managed. Judging from Esme’s reputation it seemed likely.

It had been 4-4 since the bottom of the fifth, when they’d given up a two-run homerun. In the seventh Jaylen stopped pulling her punches, a stray shot bouncing wide off Ted’s helmet and skittering through the dirt. Ted went down, knocked off balance onto one knee. Another Ted stayed up, like an afterimage. Betsy could close one eye at a time and control which one they saw, just for a moment, until he headed off to first base and more and more copies followed him at regular intervals. A superposition standing on first base.

Olly took a worse hit two innings later. In the dirt, right off his shin. About seven of him limped to first and Betsy was sure they saw Jaylen laugh when a barely coherent Ted took the plate right after him. A single, and one Olly made it to third, which was apparently enough for the umps. Another Ted would stay behind for a chance to hit in the run that would break the tie, and for a second it almost looked like it might, but it fell short of the wall straight into the glove of an outfielder. The inning ended when Olly was halfway home and as soon as he didn’t need to run anymore he took all the weight off his front leg. Ted helped him back to the dugout, a strange duo of intermixing past forms and afterimages.

Their turn. Betsy stepped out to meet them on their way to the mound. Only a time for a few words. 

“Ol, you good?”

“Y yyea ah,” came the voice from three bodies, the auditory confusion only heightened by the reverberations on the wind. “J j u s ju just got t t go tta w alk alk i t t offf off.”

Betsy frowned. “Want me to just throw the game? If we go into extra innings who knows how long it’ll go.”

“Can’t aff o o rd it,” said Ted, a bit more coherent. “Give i i t your bes t shot, ka a a y?”

Betsy looked at Olly. He nodded. They shrugged.

“Y’all’s funeral.”

*******

Their gesture was almost in vain, letting runners onto first and third before narrowly baiting out an inning-ending flyout. Extra innings.  _ How the fuck is it legal to use a grappling hook? _ wondered Betsy as they headed back into the dugout. They searched out Olly, tried to figure out which one of him came first. Easier to talk to that one. They plopped down on the bench. The Thieves’ fielders were throwing around as Jaylen took her sweet time taking the mound, playing at looking disdainful at being forced to pitch yet another inning.

“N n ice jo ob, B Be e t Be ts.”

“Eh. Too close.”

“C c cl o c l o se o nly c c o un ts i i n-” then he frowned, realizing how much of the sentence was left to say.

“Don’t worry dude I got it. Don’t say too much.” He nodded and it cascaded. Paula Turnip was taking practice swings right outside the batter’s box and Nolanestophia Patterson was looking jittery on deck.

Olly laughed but in the reverb it sounded more like a record before the needle reached the groove. “D d don n’t ev ev ve n recc c ogni ze us s s a an yy mo r e.”

“The Garages?”

Nod. Cascade.

“The roster?”

Nod. Cascade. “I i i t’s l l i i ke I. Wwwww o ke up p p a and nd nd e ve ry ryr thi ng was-”

“No. I get it. Trust me. I get it. Uh. Sorry to cut you off, it’s just you talking too much makes me nauseous.”

Olly gave them a middle finger over and over again. Betsy laughed.

“H h a rd to kn o w, l li ke. Ww wh o cc om e s in clcc cl utch. Wh o o ‘s ddddep end able. Los s s t tra ck.”

Foul ball. 0-1.

“Eh. Probably no one. Everybody chokes sometimes. And everybody gets a lucky hit sometimes. Can’t wait on one person to take care of it.”

Foul ball. 0-2.

“F fe l t l i i i ke wwwwwe had peo o ple li k e tt that. Bbbbefore.”

Betsy shrugged. “Don’t look at me, dude, I’m not even from here.”

A noise swept through the stadium, filling every crevice with echo, an impulse response washing over the crowd and players alike. Paula Turnip rounded the bases. Homerun. Garages up 5-4.

It was 6-4 by the time it was Betsy’s turn up.

“All right, let’s see if I can’t end this fast.”

“C c c c count ting o n n yo u.”

Betsy rolled their eyes. “What the fuck did I just say, bitch, don’t count on me. Got half a mind to choke on purpose just for you saying that.”

They didn’t. Three batters up, three batters down. A ground out, then two strikeouts. Like it was nothing. Which it wasn’t.

*******

Once they were out of the reverb-laden stadium, Olly and Ted and the other several members of the team who’d been repeating started to slip back into a more stable form. The game was hastily declared an ‘important victory’ and the van headed off to the usual haunt for a celebration.

The Garages had just needed a win, Betsy told themself, crammed in the back right next to Malik and Sophia fawning over each other. Could’ve given the credit to anybody, they thought, watching Spaceman giving Paula a thumbs up. They were just an easy target like always.

But as the van drove off into the distance and everyone around them was smiling and congratulating them on the save, Betsy felt like maybe for once they could afford to just not care about any of that.

* * *

“Nya? Someone’s in here?”

“Hm? Oh, hey Sophia.”

“How’dya know it was mew without looking?”

“Only two people on this team say nya and you’re a like way higher pitched.”

“Fair enyough! Watcha doing on the counter, nya?”

“Organizing. I can never find anything in here and I’m sick of it. Putting my foot down.”

“Oh nyeah?”

“Nyeah. Wait. Yeah. Fuck.”

“L-Meow!”

“...Is that like lmao?”

“Mew got it!”

“You’re gonna give me a meowgraine.”

“Pretty bold of mew to try and clean up this place!”

“Oh c’mon, it’s not that bad. You’re just used to the Pies’ kitchen.”

“I’ve been here longer than you, nya!”

“Not in this kitchen.”

“Oh, speaking of the Pies kyitchen! That’s why I came in here, nya!”

“Not just to drive me up a wall?”

“Nyot this time! I was feeling nyostalgic and, well! There was always something around to eat in Philly. I dunnyo, figured there myight be a Pie in here!”

“No such luck, the fridge is basically always empty.”

“Well, you’re here! That’s kind of the same.”

“Fuck off, Soph, I was never a Pie.”

“Yeah, you myade pretty sure of that!”

“Course I did. Whatever. Anyway. What’s your favorite pie flavor.”

“Huh?”

“I mean I don’t know  _ everyone’s _ favorite fucking flavor so you’re gonna have to tell me if you want something you like.”

“Well, if I had to say, probably Mewberry!”

“Say it without the cat pun or I’ll stab you.”

“...Blueberry.”

"See, was that so hard?"

"My fur's falling out from the effurt, nya~"

"You'll get over it. Hey if you want you can go to the store and grab some blueberries. While I make pie crust. It’ll get done faster.”

“You’re seriously making mew a pie? Is this like, a prank?”

“No I just need a break. And I like making pie. Does it need to be any more complicated?”

“Guess nyot. Just m- blueberries that you need?”

“Yeah, should have everything else. Pick me up a Mlonster if you feel like it I guess.”

“You myind if I go in a sec?”

“Whatever. Take your time.”

“Cool, nya~”

“...”

“...”

“You look like you wanna say something.”

“Oh… nyothing… Just being in a kyitchen with Betsy myaking me a pie. Kinda nyostalgic.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble Soph but that bitch wasn’t me.”

“Nyo. But I’ve been thinking that myaybe the two of you aren’t quite so diffurent as you’d want us to think.”

“Yeah? That your opinion?”

“Look if you’re gonna start trying to stab meow, tell me so I can styart running okay?”

“I’m not gonna stab you, Soph. ...Look, I didn’t know her. So if you say so-”

“I do!”

“Then. I dunno. Whatever. Sure.”

“Hmmm… Do you think there’s some kind of unyiversal Betsy traits? Like, all the different Betsys sharing one or two things across time and space, nya! Wouldn’t that be nyeat?”

“That doesn’t really seem like how things would work.”

“Yeah, you’re right, nya. Well, at any rate! I’m revising what I myight have thought previously. You and the old Betsy would’ve gotten along swimmewingly! In my estimewtion.”

“You know what. Maybe we would’ve. Maybe someday we’ll figure out how to spaceship between universes and we’ll collect em all and have a fuckin, Betsy reunion. Rent out a convention center. Throw a rager. Honestly? Might be a blast.”

* * *

Olly looked back at Betsy and nodded. They nodded back. Raised their sticks in the air. Clicked off four beats. And they launched into the song.

Ted was watching, seeing Olly’s progress with integrating the new members into the off-field workings of the Garages. Betsy was in the back playing drums. It was a straightforward rock beat and not even Betsy could mess it up. Actually, they could probably afford to cool it with the self-deprecation, all the practice had left them markedly better than they’d started, probably enough to hold their own. And definitely enough to trust their muscle memory to hold the beat while their attention drifted around the room.

Soph was the nearest in front of them, laying down chords on an electric keyboard. Paula Turnip off to her side on maracas. And Summers Pony on what else but the sax. Apparently, according to Olly all three had at first requested to play the same instrument and had to be persuaded into others.

_ “Guitar, right?” _

_ “You’d think, but nah. Theremin.” _

_ “What the fuck.” _

_ “It’s surprisingly popular.” _

Olly was at the front of the room, playing the lead on guitar. It wasn’t his usual but he was something of an all-rounder so he had no problems swapping onto it. Everything was holding together nicely, nothing fancy, no bells and whistles. Music performed adequately. Ted seemed happy at least. Betsy smirked. Time to change that.

Sensing what was about to happen, Olly shot Betsy a look that said  _ Betsy don’t do it _ and Betsy caught the look and sent back one that said  _ Oh I’m absolutely going to do it and if you don’t want the song to fall apart you’re gonna have to follow along _ and Olly sighed, right as Betsy effortlessly swapped their rhythm between measures to something jaunty, syncopated, and not altogether un-ska-like.

The band faltered, losing coherence for a second before Olly gritted his teeth and started playing the offbeats sharp and staccato, transitioning impressively into a backing role. Soph snickered and pressed a button on her keyboard to switch the noise it produced to some godawful bitcrushed trumpet samples, picking out a melody with one finger. Summers started to belt out a sax solo that none of them could remember teaching them. Even Paula Turnip wordlessly shifted the rhythm of her maracas to have a slight swing to them. Eventually Betsy felt like the skaprovisation had gone on long enough and just started slamming on every aspect of their kit in some approximation of a drum solo before ending with a dramatic two-handed cymbal crash. Everyone managed to more or less hit the final note at the same time. They looked at each other, then at Teddy.

Ted rolled his eyes. “Well. If you can ska then you should be able to play our normal stuff just fine.” Looking at Olly: “Glad you had fun with this.”

Olly raised his hands up in the air to say it wasn’t his fault but Ted was already walking out of the room in a sarcastic huff. Everyone’s faces remained blank as the door closed behind him. Olly turned around to look at everyone in turn, and finally at Betsy. He glared at them. And then neither of them could hold it back anymore and their faces broke into smiles and then laughter. Soph joined in soon after and Summers whinnied and even Paula’s eyes narrowed in a smile. The four of them laughed together for a bit and when it calmed down Olly started to stumble through an awkward combination of a congratulation and a welcome to the band, before Betsy cut him off.

“Look Ol, full offense, I don’t think any of us learned instruments just to hear your lameass welcome spiel.”

“Yeah, that’s fair…”

“Nya? Then why’d we do it?”

“I dunno Soph, what do I look like, a brain genius? Do y’all wanna just go get dinner?”

“Sounds good to mew!”

“Yeah sure, why not.”

The sound of leaves shaking in affirmation from Paula. And a neigh.

* * *

If Betsy wanted to drown out the noise from the party below they had to stand right at the edge of the roof of the Big Garage. The wind was all they heard and it threatened at any moment to extinguish their cigarette. Never did though, just sent its smoke trailing hard to the side like a windsock, a thin plume marking course through the dull sky’s current, moon illuminating it so that it extended from the end of Betsy’s mouth like fishing wire.

End of another season. Usually whoever won the championship threw the postseason party, but the Shoe Thieves were a bit indisposed after getting their asses kicked by what was apparently a malevolent peanut? Betsy didn’t really get it, it had happened like they were used to most events in the ILB happening: distant and echoed. Apparently Jaylen was cursed now or something. Betsy wondered with a smirk how that bitch’s situation kept getting more complicated.

They’d pitched one more game against her, when the Garages faced the Thieves in the semifinals. Won that one too, the only game the Garages managed to take in that series. Although given the circumstances maybe the loss was a blessing in itself.

A few of the Garages spilled out the back door underneath. Betsy couldn’t hear what they were saying but knowing them it was likely time for a joyride. Oh, Tot was in the group. Maybe going to see Luis, then? He’d been pretty worried about the possibility of ascension.

It had been a fun party, Betsy admitted despite themself, a private Garages affair. The music was excellent. Someone had raided the craft beer stash. And as a capstone Betsy had been surprised there and then with the news that they were the Season 9 strikeouts leader, an achievement which came with a trophy engraved with their name, and even a little letter from the commissioner.  _ Well, strikeouts were always my specialty, after all. Throwing a curveball every now and again doesn’t hurt either. _ Everyone had clapped and Betsy, still unaccustomed to praise, had blushed hard enough for it to be visible through their complexion.

Their first instinct, of course, had been to do shots out of the little cup on top, but to their dismay it was filled in with gold plastic instead of hollow. Their next was to smash it, in keeping with their usual pattern of indiscriminately breaking shit at parties, but just as they were about to raise it overhead they heard someone suggest they put the trophy up on the shelf, a small and not-recently-used display above the flatscreen. Betsy handed it over and Greer Gwiffin hoisted Malik up on his shoulders to slide it on top of the layer of dust. And someone started a cheer and Betsy realized that this was no longer just their achievement, it was something that belonged to all the Garages, and somehow that knowledge made the attention a bit easier to bear.

Despite that, after long enough they’d just had to escape from all the  _ kindness. _ People congratulating them on the playoffs win, the trophy, or comments with no impetus just out of some general goodwill, fuck even just people laughing at their jokes: It made them wonder if they were fucked up in some deep permanent way that their reflexes were telling them to seek out someone who would tell them they were irredeemable, unlikable, and just overall not worth shit. Oh well. Maybe someday they’d get around to introspecting about it. For now they were avoiding the noise and elections news by hiding out, smoking on the roof.

Hadn’t quite been a season since they’d joined the Garages. Felt like yesterday and aeons ago all at once. It had been months since they’d mentally complained about needing to wear flannel to fit in. It had somewhat grown on them. Looked decent under their jacket. The habitually cool weather suited them. And if they were forced to admit it, they would say that not everyone on the team was entirely lame. But that was as much as you would get out of them.

It was cold this late at night and this far into Autumn. They shuffled their feet to try to warm up, boots scraping noisily against the rough surface underneath. They tried not to think of what the circumstances and moonlit silhouette of the rooftop reminded them of. But how could they avoid it? The way the wind curled around the edges of the roof like a protective barrier was the same. It was high enough that you could almost pretend the light pollution wasn’t so bad that you could still make out the constellations, if only Betsy knew any. They tried to remember, recapture the sensation of feeling like they could touch the sky.

They almost said his name.

They didn’t get the chance.

The noise of an impact behind them.

Betsy knew what it sounded like to fall from the sky.

The sound startled them and they fumbled their cigarette over the edge and at first they watched it fall, dim flame growing fainter on its Galilean tumble towards Earth, shining faintly through the mist of their breath. Then they turned around.

A body, not moving, curled up, desaturated even in moonlight. Betsy stared at it for too long before taking a step and then another forward. It stirred. Pushed itself up. Its back was to them. It dusted itself off. And just as Betsy was wondering how to make themself known, some rock skittered away off their foot and the figure stiffened. Turned around.

There in the moonlight stood Mike Townsend. Unmistakable.

Lip movements like he was remembering how to speak. Then:

“betsy?”

Betsy lost count of how many times they blinked before responding. “Mike?”

“uh. what’s up?”

“Why’s your voice sound like that?”

“huh? oh, uh, i dunno.” He thought for a moment, then cleared his throat. “There. Is that better?”

“Think so.”

“Weird. Dunno what that was.”

Silence hung in the air, filling every inch of the gap between Mike and Betsy.

Maybe the Garages had come up with some new plan, something Betsy hadn’t been permitted to see, setting their past mistakes right in some small measure. Maybe it was the fans, given new divine authority to mix and match rosters and relegate players to umbra. Or maybe shit just happened and there wasn’t any sort of point to it. Betsy was scared to think about it too hard, scared that if they did they would dispel some illusion and the Mike that stood in front of them now would dissipate, sublimate, disintegrate and in his place would be nothing but the same shadows he’d somehow escaped from.

They locked eyes for a few moments as Betsy’s brain struggled to process anything, tried to come up with some solution for the equation of how to respond to this. And then they remembered that they’d never thought anything through before in their entire life.

So why start now?

They sprinted towards Mike and tackled him in a hug and they both collapsed onto the rough surface of the roof. Betsy tucked their head in tight and spoke into Mike’s chest.

“I fucking missed you, dude. Real bad.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Wild.”

“You fucking asshole.”

Mike draped his arms around their back. Timid. “I’m kidding. I uh. Missed you too. Probably. Definitely. I think. Dunno. Shit’s been weird.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Before I do. Can you get off?”

“Nope. Never. I’m never moving.”

“Betsy I’m serious your elbow is right on my fucking bladder.”

“Oh. Uh. My bad.”

Betsy pushed themself back at last, falling into a sitting position even as Mike pushed himself up as well, rubbing his side.

“So like,” said Betsy, “you good? Do you uh, need anything? Medical attention?”

“Honestly? I think I just want a burger.”

Mike met their eye contact and grinned. Betsy rolled their eyes.

“Michael Townsend, everyone. Escapes from purgatory and asks for fast food.”

“Like you wouldn’t.”

“Course I would, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, let’s fuckin ditch this spot, I know a good-ass burger place.”

“Uh huh. And would this place happen to be McDlonalds.”

Betsy laughed and shoved him. “It might not have been! I’ll never tell.”

“You’ll still eat anything, huh.”

“Yeah yeah whatever. Anyway, for no particular reason I have changed my mind. Do ya wanna go to a second, distinct burger place.”

“Yes, Betsy. Yes I would.”

And so, down the same emergency exit they’d used several years and lifetimes ago, two more guests left the party, braving yet another windy Seattle night in search of something to eat.

**_to be concluded_ **

**Author's Note:**

> I failed at making this a two parter. Oh well. Trilogies are in these days.  
> I don't know why this part turned out so long but there are a BUNCH of scenes in here I love. I hope they end up fitting together. This time for real, next part is the last part.
> 
> Also thanks to [Elliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliotfromchicago) for helping with some of the editing on this one!


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